DAX LEANED against the fractured plaster of the wall at the opening of the alley, arms folded, glaring out at the street, keeping watch. He looked like a sullen teen who had separated himself from the group.
Hunter ignored him. After they left the hideout and made their way to the meeting point, the brief and inexplicable warmth of earlier had steadily cooled back to the familiar icy indifference—to the point that Hunter wondered if he’d imagined the whole exchange in the corridor. Since they’d arrived in the alley, Dax hadn’t said two words to him. The reason for the shift in mood was obvious. Dax already made it clear he was sore about being left out of the mission, and now that Hunter was minutes away from leaving, he was going to be surly about it. Also, he likely believed Hunter would ultimately fuck it up and get everyone killed. But Hunter didn’t care what Dax thought. He wanted out of the hideout for good and wanted Uri out too. He’d get it done, one way or another.
He positioned himself between the two shafts that extended out from the front of the cart, assuming his role as the beast of burden. The cart was somewhat bigger than a rickshaw, with a longer, flat bed and comically sized wheels. He secured his hands around the leather grips and as Zinnuvial climbed up onto the back, the shafts pressed against his palms. She ducked inside a large crate turned on its side and pulled a tarp over the top, concealing herself.
Two others unfamiliar to Hunter loaded the back of the cart with an unruly pile of sacks and jugs, creating the illusion of a full load of supplies.
He drew in a long breath, which smelled of piss and decay. Like all shadowy back alleys, it was clearly used by a multitude of drunks as a convenient, out-of-the-way place to relieve themselves as they stumbled home. Still better than the dank of the caves, he thought. It felt like he was on furlough from a prison term. Despite the potential danger, he was unexpectedly eager to delve back into civilization. A twisted medieval version of it, but civilization nonetheless.
Dax left his post at the alley’s entrance to stand next to Hunter. “Stay to the route I showed you.”
“Of course,” Hunter replied.
“These streets are confusing to those unfamiliar—”
“So you’ve reminded me. Multiple times.”
“Your name is Maxence.”
Hunter gave him a long side-eye. “You know, it’s entirely possible I’m not the fuckup that you think I am.”
“However unlikely,” Dax replied dryly. The comment didn’t have the normal bite it usually had. If Hunter didn’t know better, he’d think Dax was concerned about him. “Speak little. Your strange tongue will give you away.”
Hunter closed his eyes and fought against the retort bubbling up to his tongue. “Are you ready, Zinn?” he said over his shoulder. He was answered with a double knock from within the crate.
“A sword’s in the cart. Last resort only. If anything appears wrong—” Dax added.
“Abort and return immediately.” Hunter was fairly certain that Dax had inserted that final bit of instructions himself. He doubted Quinnar would be keen that Dax was encouraging him to bail on the mission.
“Bring Yvenne back here. I’ll be waiting.”
Hunter adjusted his grip again on the shafts. Dax hated he wasn’t part of this. He wanted to be the one going in to bring her back. But Hunter knew him well enough already to know this wasn’t his type of mission. Dax worked alone.
And he likely wasn’t strong enough to pull the cart.
Dax grabbed Hunter’s forearm and looked at him directly. His jaw was tight, his lips pressed into a thin pale line, but Hunter caught a glimpse of something behind his eyes. When he spoke, he had a different edge to his voice. A note of unease. “No unnecessary risks.”
“Careful, Dax. You almost sound like you care.”
Dax’s expression hardened and he pulled his hand away. “I care about the mission.”
“Get me started,” Hunter said over his shoulder. The two behind the cart pushed to get it rolling. The wheels rolled with a squeak and a groan as they crunched over the cobblestones. Hunter leaned in and hauled the cart down the length of the alley.
The first leg of the journey followed the narrow gully made of buildings covered in pale yellow plaster. The street had a slight incline that Hunter could feel in his calves as he tugged the cart along. Cobblestones were missing everywhere, and the wheels dropped in the holes, forcing the cart to lurch and threatening to bring it to a halt. Hunter grunted and put his back into it to keep the cart moving—and imagined how sore his legs were going to be later. He’d suggest this to Coach Titan as part of his training regimen. If he ever made it back, he thought ruefully.
On his own, exposed in the open city and surrounded by people, Hunter had to admit it felt more strange and unnerving than he had anticipated. Curious eyes surveyed him as he lumbered past. He felt conspicuous, an obvious fake that stood out like a bad toupee. And every shadowy corner or alleyway seemed to mask a hidden, unknown danger. He wondered if he’d been too quick to agree to this. Maybe Dax had been right.
More unease needled him as his mind chewed over a new thought: Quinnar had an ulterior reason in selecting him. If the mission worked out like it was supposed to, great. But if it didn’t, Hunter was expendable. If something happened to him, it would put a neat end to one of Quinnar’s many headaches.
The narrow street entered a plaza, which was a frenzied knot of congestion. Everyone acted as if they had somewhere to be immediately, and people swarmed about without any discernable traffic flow. Hunter guided the cart across the confusion toward the landmark he was instructed to find—a statue of a woman with a golden orb resting in her palm and lifted toward the sun. Then, down a wider street toward the next landmark. Then a right turn toward the next.
The street leveled off, making progress easier on his legs and back. He rounded the corner and was thrust into the perimeter of a broad market square. Brightly colored tents piled around a towering red marble obelisk at the center. Merchandise spilled out from under each canopy—bolts of fabric, earthenware jugs, stacks of cast-iron pots—and midday shoppers strolled about like wayward sheep, scrutinizing the wares on display. A long bank of food stalls had taken position along one side of the square and a separate but more fervent crowd pressed in hard, demanding their lunch. The breeze shifted, and the smoke from their fires wafted in Hunter’s direction, carrying the smell of cooked meats and unfamiliar spices.
The city was alien and strange in so many ways. But at the same time, it had a deeply rooted familiarity that resonated in him. It had the same pulse every city seems to have. The same energy.
He pushed into the teeming square and the thick ambling crowd swarmed around him and the cart like flood waters and forced him to slow. People pushed against the cart as they flowed around him, rocking it. His unease spiked. Sweat cascaded down the center of his back. The crowd was too tight around him and felt turbulent and erratic. He picked up the pace, heedless of those in front of him. People shouted and cursed at him as they leapt aside.
From the corner of his eye, Hunter caught sight of a statue—a woman, standing on a massive black marble plinth. She was wrapped in flowing robes and gripped a sword in her right hand as if she was on a battlefield. Her chin jutted outward toward the sky in a haughty and contemptuous expression of power. Hunter involuntarily slowed.
The statue was splashed with bright red paint, and part of the side of the face had been cracked and broken off, but the resemblance was undeniable.
His mother.
His cheeks flushed with sudden rage. This was how she was viewed now. Detested and feared. She would forever be remembered as a villain. A monster. The unfairness of it, after how she was made to suffer, made his insides burn like a kiln.
People around him were shouting for him to move. Two guards threading through the crowd craned their necks to see what was causing the commotion. Heart thumping, Hunter ducked his chin to his breastbone and lurched into motion again. The cart creaked and rocked behind him.
Yvenne’s shop was at the far end of this chaos somewhere.
After he rounded the perimeter of tents, he fought the urge to look back over his shoulder to see if the guardsmen trailed him. But a bored patrol, maintaining a visual presence at a public event, was less a concern, he told himself. Agents of the palace, on the lookout for resistance members they recognized, were the real danger. And they wouldn’t be cloaked in black and lurking in shadows. Any one of these shoppers could be on the lookout for him. Every turn of a head in his direction made his chest constrict.
He caught his first clear view of the far side. The workshop was hard to miss. It was one of the largest on that side of the square, and vibrant lengths of silk hung from posts outside the building, flailing in the air with theatrical, almost comical, flourish. He half expected a drag queen to march out of the open barn-style door and start a fierce routine on the plaza.
He dragged in a full breath to shore up his nerves, the air tight in his lungs. He straightened his back and angled toward the shop. No one paid him any attention as he hauled the cart through the open doorway. With any luck he’d be in and out in under twenty minutes.
He lowered the front of the cart and let go of the shafts.
The sprawling workshop wasn’t as dark as he expected. Light streamed in from four skylights in the high ceiling. The warm sunlight illuminated a host of earthenware vats, each large enough to bathe in, all neatly arranged in a grid. The back wall was a row of heavy shelving that looked more like scaffolding, laden with stacked rolls of fabrics. As warm air rushed past him to escape out the door, it carried with it an odd fusion of odors. Somewhat floral. Somewhat acerbic. Somewhat chemical and identifiable.
“Hello?”
He circled around to the back of the cart and rolled the barn door closed, shutting out the din of the market. The room was thrust into a pregnant silence. No one was around, no one tending to the vats. What should have been an industrious workshop was abandoned and still.
Movement caught his eye. He looked up, past the cart and across the front line of the vats. A woman emerged from somewhere, shuffling along slowly as if sore from a marathon. She fit the description Dax had given him—thin, angular frame, dark-skinned like Zinnuvial. Her hair was longer than Zinnuvial’s, and streaked with gray. They didn’t look that much alike, but Hunter hoped it was enough to fool anyone long enough to get Yvenne away. She wore a nondescript linen dress with a tan leather apron over the front.
Hunter dropped the sacks onto the ground. “Yvenne?”
The woman stopped at the front line of vats and came no closer.
Hunter circled back around to the front of the cart. “Are you Yvenne?” he asked again.
“Bring the supplies to the back,” she said in voice that was too loud for the distance between them.
Hunter stepped closer, and Yvenne stiffened. Something was wrong. Her eyes were wide; her chest rose and fell in quick succession. She was afraid.
Her mouth formed silent words. Go now.
A trap. They knew they were coming extract her. They knew when and they knew how.
Behind him, he heard the tarp over the crate get thrown back and the cart creak as it shifted. Zinnuvial was leaping out of the back. She’d picked up on it too.
Hunter lunged forward and grabbed Yvenne by the wrist.
“No, no,” she yelped as Hunter flung her behind him.
More movement—dark hooded shapes rose from behind vats throughout the workshop, and more still appeared on the shelves in the back. The figures on the shelves army-crawled forward to the edge of the high stack, and Hunter caught the front curves of crossbows aiming down at him.
The twang of a bowstring came from his left. The arrow shot across the workshop and with astonishing precision, impaled one of the dark figures on the shelf. The figure spasmed and went limp. The weapon tumbled to the floor. The reaction from the others was immediate—they all shifted to get better cover.
Zinnuvial dropped again behind the cart, notching another arrow. She’d bought them a few seconds.
Still gripping Yvenne’s wrist, Hunter flung his arm over the side of the cart and fumbled around until his fingers touched the hilt of the sword. Right where Dax told him it would be. He slid it out and dragged Yvenne behind the cart with him.
“Stay low,” he told her. The downward angle of the bed should give them enough cover from the crossbows. At least until the other attackers came around and flanked them.
“I’m sorry,” she said as they ducked under. She was borderline calm—more angry than afraid. “There was no way to warn you.”
He considered pulling the door open again and dodging out with Yvenne in tow, but he knew it was pointless. The palace agents would already be moving in to block any escape. Hunter sprang up and threw a large iron latch that locked the door in place. It trapped them inside, but it would slow down others from storming into the warehouse.
A crossbow bolt slammed into the door with a sharp thud a foot to his left as he dipped back behind the cart. “We’ll get you out.” It was an empty platitude. He had no idea if there was any way out of this. “Is there another exit?”
“In the back.”
It would be watched too. Or blocked.
Another bolt ricocheted off the wooden spoke of the wheel. A splinter of wood slammed into his cheek.
Zinnuvial popped up and fired off another arrow. A moment later—a brief but satisfying cry.
“How many more archers?” he asked her.
“Now three,” Zinnuvial replied.
“And on the ground?”
“At least four.”
At least. That didn’t bode well.
His body and mind fell into a state of focused calm. Like they always did when the whistle blew at the start of a match. But this was no game. There was a solid chance he was going to end up captured or dead. The latter, most likely. But his brain was conditioned for conflict. It just hadn’t figured out yet the stakes were higher. Much higher.
“Keep them busy for me.” He couldn’t believe what he was about to do. But acting without thinking was his specialty. He hadn’t had enough training at this—he knew that—yet all his instincts told him to throw himself into the action. It was what he did.
Only this time he wasn’t chasing a swollen oblong ball.
Zinnuvial grabbed his arm as he started to move. “Do not stay your hand. Do what must be done.”
Hunter swallowed. She meant he would have to kill.
She sprang up to fire off two arrows in quick succession, and he dashed left along the wall, sword raised.
The first attacker rounded a vat and lunged for him. He was clad in the same thick black leather Hunter had seen before. The Black Brotherhood. Queen Jenora’s personal elite force. And Hunter faced him without any sort of armor protection. He might as well have been naked.
The attacker came at him, sword high in an angle swipe. The blade was smaller than he used when he fought against Zinnuvial. A short sword. It cut the air faster. Responded quicker. Panic flooded his head like a gas leak. He had no idea how to defend against it.
But his body reacted as if it had been hacked.
His feet snapped into position. The blade seemed to pull his arms as it twisted up to meet the attack. Metal clashed and sang as the edges slid against each other, and the short sword was guided to the side. The attacker responded with a quick step inward and came at him again. Hunter pivoted back a step and met that one too.
The attacker was fast—but not as fast as Zinnuvial.
He’d thank her for that later.
A third attack drove him back farther. He was losing ground, and he’d run into a wall soon. Then what? He knew he couldn’t spend the entire afternoon deflecting attacks. From the corner of his eye, he could see more of the attackers moving in.
Zinnuvial had chastised him for not striking when there was an opening. He caught himself doing it now. He was keeping him at bay without taking the offensive when he had the chance. This wasn’t practice. The man would not stop until one of them was dead.
The attacker saw it coming and warped his trunk to avoid it—but not quite fast enough. Hunter’s sword ran across his flank. A lucky strike enabled by the man’s overconfidence. He hadn’t expected Hunter to be a challenge. Hunter felt the push against his hand—felt the cut—and he recoiled from the sensation. Involuntarily, he relaxed the pressure, and the blade sliced open the leather only. Not the skin.
Fear had held him back. Fear of killing. He had to get out of his head and stop pulling punches.
His opponent stiffened a moment, expecting pain. He should be dead, and he knew it. A grin split his face.
Something whizzed past Hunter’s head and thumped into the wall behind him. Another crossbow bolt. And the others were closing in.
No time left.
An earthenware jug tumbled through the air and shattered next to the man. Yvenne had heaved it from behind the cart. The man jolted, his grin evaporating. Hunter took advantage of the moment and lunged, closing the distance between them. The attacker brought up his sword in defense, but Hunter snatched the wrist of his sword arm, freezing it in place. Gripping the sword with only his right, he thrust it forward. This time, he grit his teeth and didn’t hold back.
He closed his eyes and winced as the tip impaled his midsection. He felt resistance for a moment, like when sinking a knife through the hard rind of a melon, then nothing. The sword sank deeper. The man’s sword arm spasmed in Hunter’s grip, and his other clasped the sleeve of Hunter’s tunic. Then he went limp and fell to the floor.
Hunter pulled out the blade and turned from the body, averting his eyes. Bile burned the back of his throat, and he fought to keep his stomach from emptying. He’d killed a man—didn’t matter that it was in self-defense. This would forever change him.
Well… if he survived this. At the moment it didn’t seem likely. Two more were rounding the closest vat. He caught dark glimpses of others circling around to come at them from another direction. And there was at least one crossbow sniper still on the stacks.
As the two sprang for him, an arrow struck the curved side of a vat, splintering it apart, and pieces of it ricocheted off. The man closest to it cried out and ducked, an arrow fragment narrowly missed his head. Zinnuvial was still providing Hunter some cover.
Hunter launched at the other one.
He stepped in hot, first making a low cut to the left. The man met it easily and pivoted sideways and tried to force the blade up to expose Hunter’s torso. A move he was ready for. Zinnuvial had run him through that drill a thousand times. He shifted and stepped in again, spun his sword around in a downward cut aimed at his neck before the attacker could take advantage of the opening. But the sword cut only air as the opponent pivoted beyond Hunter’s strike zone.
More shouts. Barking commands from somewhere deeper in the shop. Were more entering from the back?
Zinnuvial fired off more arrows in quick succession, forcing the farther attackers into cover behind vats. But it provided an opening for the second attacker to close the distance on Hunter. From the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of the sword.
He lunged back. The blade missed him by inches.
As he recovered and sprang back into his stance, ready to face the newer opponent as well, an arrow whistled through the air to his right. Hunter heard a soft gasp, almost a sigh, and turned to see the shaft protruding from the man’s throat. As his eyes rolled back and red bubbles gurgled out from the wound, his legs gave out and he sank to the floor.
A splintering crash came from above. Shards of glass showered down as the skylight blew apart. A large stone careened down in the center of it all. Rectangular, like a cinder block. As the glass splattered on the stone floor, the brick struck a vat. With a crack that sounded like a gunshot, the vat broke apart and viscous orange liquid exploded out the side.
Hunter’s opponent leapt backward, startled. That wasn’t part of their plan.
A second object plummeted from the hole in the ceiling.
It soared down like a meteor—a streaking ball of fire. It hit the wet ground where the vat had come apart. Yellow flames rolled out from the impact. Then, a moment later, the wet floor erupted in dancing blue fire. A wave of intense heat pressed against Hunter’s face.
Cries rang out, and black-garbed soldiers scattered in all directions.
Whatever chemicals were used in those dyes, it was flammable. And there were more than a dozen filled vats. The building was doomed.
Hunter took advantage of the sudden distraction and thrust the blade. The man’s attention snapped back to Hunter, and he stepped back and turned to avoid the point. But he wasn’t quite fast enough. The edge caught him under the unprotected sword arm. Blood jetted from a wide gash, and the man screamed. The sword tumbled from his grip. He recoiled from Hunter, grasping the wound with his free hand, blood oozing out from between his fingers.
Hunter hadn’t killed him, but he was out of the fight.
More heavy bricks hailed down from the hole in the ceiling. Some thumped harmlessly on the floor but one smashed into another vat, shattering it apart. Purple-black liquid gushed out, and as soon as it reached the line of blue fire, it, too, erupted into flames. Sacks underneath the lowest shelf caught fire, and flames lapped up to reach the rolls of fabric on the shelves.
Zinnuvial, bow gripped tight in her right hand, appeared at his side. Yvenne was pressed in close behind her.
Through the haze of gray smoke that rose up to escape through the shattered skylight, Hunter caught a glimpse of figures on the roof. Three, by the looks of it. One sidled right up to the edge of the jagged opening, crossbow in hand. He fired several bolts down at the men scattering about and looking for cover, then repositioned himself out of sight. Hunter almost laughed. He recognized the silhouette.
Dax. Saving his ass again.
“That’s our way out,” Zinnuvial said, pointing up to the shattered skylight with her bow. The edge of it was directly above the top of the stacks. Which were now on fire.
“We better be quick about it,” he said. It wouldn’t take long for all that fabric to catch fire. The building would be a full conflagration in minutes.
He circled the workshop, hunched low and hugging the wall. The other two were close to his heels. More smoke billowed into the workshop than could escape through the skylights. It swirled over their heads, a disorienting and toxic cloud that pressed down on them. It provided cover, but Hunter’s eyes stung, and each inhale burned down into his lungs.
Crossbow bolts flashed over their heads like mad starlings, impaling the wall behind him with sharp thuds. The archer on the high shelf was shooting blindly through the haze. Others across the workshop were shouting orders.
Another attacker sprang from the haze. Zinnuvial loosed an arrow and the shaft skewered his shoulder. The force of the impact threw him back with a splatter of blood. As Zinnuvial stepped over the body, she ripped the arrow free from the wound and renotched it.
Red and orange heaved to life on the first shelf. The fabric had caught fire, and the flames ate it greedily. It spread outward and climbed higher.
A river of blue flames ran between them and the shelves.
“Jump it,” Zinnuvial barked from behind.
Hunter didn’t hesitate. He took a short running start and heaved his bulk over the narrowest vein. Intense heat seared his exposed skin as he sailed over it. He landed hard on the far side, and as he staggered to keep his balance, an attacker leapt for him, sword high.
He ducked and threw up his sword in a desperate parry. Steel clashed and sparked as the new attacker’s blade ran the length of his to catch against the guard. The shockwave ran through Hunter’s forearm, and the force twisted his wrist and threatened to dislodge his own grip on the hilt.
He punched outward with his elbow, putting the full strength of his arm behind it. The blow clipped the man’s chin, and his head jolted back. The attacker stumbled sideways.
An arrow shaft sank deep into the man’s collarbone. He spun about from the impact and collapsed.
A moment later, Zinnuvial jumped the river of blue fire and appeared at his side. Yvenne hoisted her shift above her knees and leapt over the flames as well. The hem of the fabric caught as she landed, but Zinnuvial was quick to pluck the flames from her before they spread.
In the corner of the workshop, the shelves were now a tower of swirling flames. Eating away at the rolls of fabric, they quickly lapped up toward the ceiling. The crossbowman positioned near the top, clearly growing nervous, climbed to his feet and scurried to the far end, ready to climb down. But that option seemed fruitless now. A shocking mix of blue and orange flames had consumed most of the ground beneath him.
Hunter leapt and grabbed the lip of the first shelf. He hoisted himself up, dropped to his belly, and offered his hand down to Zinnuvial and Yvenne. Heat pressed on his side like an open blast furnace. The flames drew closer with every second.
“Keep going,” he shouted over the roar of the flames as soon as Zinnuvial and Yvenne were hauled up. Smoke filled his throat like a hot rag, choking him. His eyes burned. He wove his fingers together in front of him. Zinnuvial stepped in the center, and Hunter hoisted her up to the next level. Yvenne followed, with Zinnuvial helping her.
Movement caught his eye. Across the sea of flames, a darkly clad figure emerged from a separate room off to the side. His pale skin reflected the firelight like porcelain, and the black hair caught the swirling eddies caused by the fire and flew outward like bat wings. Charcoal blue ram horns twisted out of his temples.
The Heneran strolled out into the workshop, heedless of the inferno around him, looking like a demon of hell. Flames rolled away from his feet as if terrified of him, and as he crossed the floor, he glared up at the three of them, his eyes piercing into Hunter’s soul like an arrow. Despite the heat pressing in around him, it sent a cold wave racing down his back.
He wondered, for no more than an instant, if this was a projection like before. But no—his form was solid, and he commanded the flames around him as if they were his children fawning for his attention.
The Heneran lifted his arms out to his sides. The crystal at his breast surged with light. Blue flames rose from the floor to meet his palms, then spun themselves into churning orbs. He extended his hands out toward the shelves, and the orbs shot through the air.
Hunter flung himself up. One hand grasped the edge of the shelf above him as the two balls of fire pounded into the shelf under his feet. Flames exploded underneath him, searing heat surrounding him. If not for the heavy boots he wore, his feet would have been charred. The shelf beneath him disintegrated, and rolls of burning fabric cascaded to the floor.
Zinnuvial lifted Yvenne up to the final shelf while Hunter pulled himself up. He scrambled to his feet, ready to jump again. The blast had weakened the shelving—Hunter could feel the entire structure shift under him. It was losing its integrity and would soon all crash down. He stole a glimpse of the Heneran. More flames were rising up into his hands.
Above him, a hand was reaching down from the broken skylight to pull Yvenne to safety. She at least would make it out of this alive.
Zinnuvial notched her last arrow and let it fly. Hunter froze a moment to watch it soar across the workshop. It impaled the shoulder of the Heneran, throwing him back. The blue orbs lost their structure.
She had bought them a little more time, but already the Heneran was attempting to recover, and the shelving groaned and started to list.
Hunter again hoisted Zinnuvial up. She threw down her bow and leapt for the skylight. Hands seized her and hauled her onto the roof.
He scrambled up, feeling like he was on a capsizing ship. Everything was twisting under him, wood groaning. He jumped—but the shelf gave way. He couldn’t push off hard enough. He flailed his arm upward in a desperate attempt to grab anything. Four fingers caught the lip of the skylight, but a shard of glass embedded in the edge stabbed into his palm. He cried out. Pain exploded throughout his hand, and as he dangled over the inferno, the shelving collapsed into a burning heap. Smoke swirled thick and gray around him, forcing his eyes closed, and he couldn’t pull any air into his lungs. Another blast hit near the skylight. The Heneran was back to throwing fireballs at him.
“Give me your other hand, idiot!” Dax shouted down at him.
Hunter knew that Dax would never have the strength to pull him up. Hunter was more likely to pull Dax down and they’d both plummet to their deaths. But he flung an arm up blindly anyway and felt a hand snatch his wrist. Then more hands were grasping any part of him they could reach, and his body was hauled upward. Slowly. Once his waist was at the edge, he threw his leg up and rolled onto the roof.
He lay on his side, coughing smoke from his lungs. He felt dizzy and nauseous and wanted to do nothing but remain curled up in a ball. But Dax was already pulling on him.
“We have to move,” Dax said. “Now.”
He forced himself to his feet again, choking down vomit that lifted into his throat. And they all started to jog across the rooftop.